(An Ode to) The Love of Beasts
by Thel Rome
Summary: The forming, the twisting and molding, of a love that spilt blood on the shores of King's Landing, on the Iron Throne. The obligation of position constricts our true desires and makes fools of all in love.
1. I'm Sorry for Today

_I'm Sorry for Today/Ramin Djawadi (GoT S4)_

Author Note: I own nothing, but I hope you enjoy.

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_There's snow outside of the window. No, I'm mistaken. It is not snow, but ash that fills the dark, storming sky, slowly raining down. Its falling reflects the red of the adjacent city as it is taken, dying wails audible in the very air that surrounds me, in the fire and blood. I can hear the dying all around me, from within me, and know that escape is improbable. _

_But should we have been allowed to escape, my love? We, for who thousands will, are, perishing, because we loved one another? Even as I lay here, my intuition foreboding and my heart fading fast, the overwhelming thought that I have already seen your face for the last time plagues me. The pain at my side is comparable not to the ache in my chest that has burned my throat and torn tears free at the fact and a gasp catches in my throat at the memory of your kiss, our last as you left the face the flames and hammer. _

_The taste of salt on my lips is met with fingertips, mixing with the taste of iron upon them. And all the songs come back. All the tales of heroes and men and maidens whom knights would offer their lives to in exchange for only their favor. The chants of children, naïve of the trials of love and sacrifice, sound in the far off footsteps beyond the door and I know I am to be found soon._

_Again, a heave of breath escapes my lips, as if choking on the spirit leaving me, and I can only think to those I hold dear. My mother, long dead and resting under the catacombs of our frozen halls, too young did you leave from this beautiful, wretched world of man. My father and brothers, undoubtedly worried and searching for my remains, if any do persist; I contemplate the trials I have laid upon them, for my own selfish desires, though I regret none. My heart lifts one last time as my thoughts wonder to you, my love. My Prince. There will never be songs written in our names, of the love shared between, but only of the lies muttered of the rebel. And finally, our little one, safely taken to hiding should the worst of our fears be confirmed. _

"_If only," the soft utterance of a whisper escapes my lips. But there is no time for such thinking and my eyes slowly glide back to the small window. I can only reflect back on the choices I've made and pray to the old gods. I find comfort in it, somehow. I cannot determine if the forthcoming darkness that fills the room is due to the oncoming night or my imminent loss of consciousness, but a crash just beyond the door cuts the silence, followed by subsequent yells and screaming. _

_The fear that should've gripped my heart holds no power over me as I find rest in the image of his face, his smile. I am ready. Let them come. Let them take me. Not even the horror stories of war told to us by Nan when we were children can reach me now. Patiently, I wait for the barrier to break and my blood to flow for the last time. _

_As expected, the door gave way with a crash and a heavy heave of a large man, if their footsteps were of any indication. Inwardly, I clenched at the sound of sharp iron as the footsteps quickened to the bedside._

"_Lyanna…"_


	2. The Days Beginning

A/N: I don't own anything, but I do ask for any feedback you'd like to offer. Thanks for the read!

I – The Days Beginning

I recall the day an enchantment was placed on me. Or at least that's what I took it to be. Yes, a spell of sorts, for it wasn't muttered. I heard it…in my own thoughts. Perhaps it was a revelation, an oracle of what was to come, though I would forget about it sometime after, being the child I was then. I wouldn't be able to previse its meaning until after much time had already passed.

The memory is faint, but I can still look back and remember the sky that day. It was so opaque, resembling the hardening of iron as it cools after being cast from the fire, swirling and dark. A storm's distant rumble echoed far beyond. I wasn't afraid of storms, but my youngest brother was, his tiny hands clenching at my skirts as I stood at a hall window outside of the nursery. The cold and frost seemed all the more bitter that day, even within the safe confines of Winterfell, and I could almost see the breath leave my lips.

That day a prisoner and a child had been taken from a failed attempt to cross south of the Wall. Whispers from the servants confirmed that the Night's Watch had intercepted the pair who had been separate from the main wildling onslaught. The lower undertones spoke of a witch of the wild, as if to speak of her aloud was to invoke her fury, regardless of the ropes and chains that now bound her. Watching through the window, I could see the woman, though she looked to be no more witch than she did lady, tattered skins wrapped about her body and hair in knotted dreads. I saw my father and elder brothers meet with the men from the Night's Watch who held her and the babe captive and heard a slew of inaudible words, though I recognized the baritone of my father's voice echo throughout the courtyard.

The woman stood eerily still throughout the exchange, not like other wildlings I've seen captured who thrash about like wild beasts in captivity. The stillness struck me oddly, a coat of uneasiness settling into my core as shifted to take a better look at her. She wore a smile, not untwisted, as if the truth in the situation was hers solely to comprehend. As if we were pawns playing a game only she understood the rules to. And she was winning.

Suddenly, with a twist of her head, our eyes locked and I felt a frozen burning within them pierce me. My small body tensed and twisted, the muscles going stiff as I staggered back from the window, as if just having had a swift blow dealt to me. Yet, the gaze never broke nor wavered in the subsequent moments that passed, seconds seeming as years. And then I heard a whisper.

"You shall be consumed by a dragon," the thin voice spoke softly, hollow and callous. Yet, I recognized the tune. The voice was my own, speaking with sound only I could hear. My condemnation was repeated over and over as a fading murmur as the snow beyond began to fall.

The witch's gaze was finally broken as the men below assembled and started their march to the hills just beyond the outer gates of Winterfell, to a place I wished to know little of. As much as I often enjoyed roaming the grounds of my home and the forest beyond, there was a place I dared not enter, whose inhabitants likely lingered in another world, whose voices could still be heard in the wind. There was no place for me there. I stayed still, fastened to my spot at the window, even as my brother was taken back to the nursery, his shallow whimpering in the servant's arms resonating through the hall, even as the winter's air crept up my arms and chilled my cheeks, did I not look away. Not until I heard the faint scream in the distance did I shut my eyes and turn. Not until I knew her head rolled and she was no more did I run back to my chamber.

But not until I slept, did the words cease to reverberate mutely in my mind. Consumed by a dragon. I would be consumed by a dragon. But there are no dragons in the north, I thought, only wolves and wildings and Starks. And in my childish mind did I brush off those words as imagination, but never did I previse the truth that would soon be at my doorstep. That night I dreamt of fire.

It wouldn't be until seven years later that the subject of dragons was once again brought to mind, but instead of an old witch's prophecy, it came in the form of a sigil – the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. By then the winter had calmed and carriages with knights and banner men bearing the red dragon against black came to the gates of Winterfell. A raven had arrived a few fortnights ago bearing news that Lord Jon Connington rode from King's Landing on his way to Winterfell, but as to why, it did not say.

Rumors held that King Aerys II, in his madness, thought war to usurp the throne was brewing and was summoning all the high lords of the seven realms to court to testify. Others, that the Princess Elia of Dorne was dying and a search for a new bride for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was imminent since no living heirs had been yielded from their union. Yet, even as far reaching as rumors can be, one has to concede that there can always be found a grain of truth in each.

Yet, as the convoy was permitted entrance, an air of restlessness settled amid its party, breeding an uneasy feeling among the residents of Winterfell. Amidst those, one who felt particularly troubled with the arrival was Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. As he stepped out of his home and made his way to greet the group, he was struck by the silent wariness carried by the men. He had known well in advance of the oncoming arrival, but it failed to prepare him for the look he found in Lord Connington's eyes as they greeted each other at the gate.

Though clean-shaven and red-haired with a look not unlike that of his youth, Lord Connington's brow appeared to carry a heavier burden than would be suitable for a man his age. Likewise, the lines framing his mouth and eyes had grown deeper with age, but by far, the most telling were his eyes. The sea blue of his eyes, once sharp and vigorous had adopted the squally haze of a learned fisherman used to tempestuous waters.

"Lord Connington. Winterfell is yours," said with a bow, an inquisitive eye cast at the younger man. "I hope you and your company find the accommodations to your liking."

"Lord Stark, after riding so long, a bed of hay would be to my liking," the younger lord dismounted his horse and sauntered over to the taller man, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "But to be very honest, I doubt we'll be afforded the time to enjoy our stay. I come with news from King's Landing and a personal invitation from the Crown Prince himself, but let us talk inside, in private."

And with a nod the two men, followed by the rest of the convoy, quietly retreated into the warm halls of the castle, the disquiet tangible between them at what news and answers would be exchanged in the privacy of Lord Rickard's study.

And by and by, did the maiden-wolf appear from her hiding place amongst the rooftops, a spy in her own home, curious to know the purpose of such an extensive journey. It stuck her odd that such an imperative visit, at least indicated by the raven's letter, was so few and for such a brief time. If ever urgency there were, why stay only until tomorrow? Surely, the principal news took longer than that to discuss.

A landing on the stone steps exhumed nothing save a soft thud as the she-wolf retreated towards the safe havens of the Godswood to think. There she could sit by the weirwood tree and reflect on the recent events. Silently as a beast on the hunt, she weaved through the outer foliage towards an opening not far from the center, making note to not get her cloak caught in the branches. Reaching the center of the clearing, a sense of stillness met her, for the land here was sacred, ever protected by the spirits of the wood.

A breath she released, slow and careful, the corners of her lips shaping the smile that played on her features. No matter the number of visits, to look upon the weirwood was to look upon the very essence of the Godswood, of beauty and nature. As a child the face of the tree and its crying visage had frightened her. It wasn't until the day her mother passed did she run here alone, fears cast aside, crying and begging the gods to not take her. That day the crying face of the weirwood lost its horror and she found instead a place of tranquility. Although her prayers had not been answered, the peace she had sought was found, and from that day on she visited the weirwood to find that calm again.

Today, Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell, had awoken with a sense of foreboding, and all morning it could not be placed until the sight of the convoy's banners. Red dragons rearing three heads struck a sense of uneasiness with her. That and her suspicions brought her here, to the weirwood, to sit on the stones at the tree's base in silence and contemplate.

Intuition bade her to not trust the southerners, for too many tales have been sung of their wicked ways and deceitfulness. The mere thought of King's Landing conjured a wave of unsettling sickness. They said it was dirty, that the city reeked of decay due to the rotting corpses that King Aerys II had mounted on the city walls to warn anyone who dared threaten the Iron Throne. She inwardly flinched at the thought of the mad man. If ever there was a king unfit to rule, rule he did. She had never been to the south, but the accounts of it were enough to make her glad of the fact.

But what could the king want with her father? She could be nearly certain that Brandon, her elder brother, hadn't made trouble enough for the king to demand an audience with their father. Somber faces alike the ones that entered their gate couldn't possibly bring with them any favorable news either she supposed. And what invitation did Prince Rhaegar extend to her family? Suspicions flew about her mind, the calm of the wood unaccommodating.

It wasn't until she heard the rustle of foliage not far did she return from her musings. There, at the edge of the clearing stood her younger brother, Benjen, who looked diffident to the thought of coming nearer to the weirwood. A brief smile played upon her lips as she rose. Although already near coming of age, Benjen maintained a fear of the weirwood, though he endeavored not to show it. Only once she was within a reasonable distant did he speak.

"I thought you might be here. Father requests all of us gather at his study as soon as possible. He didn't entail for what, but his appearance suggested something important," his boyish voice cracked as he began his retreat back to the castle grounds after hearing her hum in acknowledgement. She looked to the sky to find the sun on the horizon, surprised at the hours that had escaped her notice so easily. She wondered if dinner's feast was to be held in the great hall to accommodate for the guests and if any minstrels had been summoned for entertainment. She had always been fond of music, though it was often lacking in the halls of Winterfell.

At last they reached the study entrance, finding Brandon and Eddard already waiting. Ned stood stoic as always, unlike Brandon who shot her an irritated glance in exasperation.

"Where were you? We were looking everywhere! I'd thought for sure you'd have been in the stables or off riding. Imagine my surprise when I find all the horses accounted for. Luckily, Benjen seems to have enough sense as to your whereabouts, it's been torture waiting all day to hear what news the king's men have brought," his irritation evident in his near brotherly exclamation. It irked her how little Brandon really knew of her habits, not that she needed him to.

"Apparently, you didn't look hard enough," she shot back a playfully vexed stare.

He rolled his eyes at her as he stepped forward, knocking on the heavy, wooden door, and, upon hearing their father's permission to enter, stepped inside. Lyanna had always been fond of the study; it smelt of leather and parchment. The candle lighting afforded them enough vision to see their father standing at his desk towards the back of the chamber, leafing through parchment and books intently. Upon noticing their approach, Lord Rickard smiled gently, the age in his face and brow becoming accentuated by the shadows cast. He waited to speak until they were all at attention.

"My children," a heavy sigh passed through his lips, although his burden seemed no more the lighter. "I haven't much news of interest to report for your ears, but this is what I will tell you. Brandon, Lord Hoster Tully and I have discussed the final arrangements for your marriage to his daughter, Catelyn. Her mother seems to be making a full recovery from the spring fever she caught and it has been decided that it will take place as soon as she is well again."

Brandon smiled at the news, a courteous smile, but not as true as he would like the world to believe. Lyanna knew her brother better than he her. She knew that he was content to marry, but that his desires would venture farther than the likes of Catelyn Tully, no matter how beautiful, kind, and generous she may be and that saddened her.

"Father, you speak of her as if I have yet to meet the girl. Allow House Tully all the time they require to gather their affairs into order," his charming smile coated and laced his words with surety, but it did not deter Lord Stark from his knowing gaze.

"Right. I also have a second betrothal proposal, sent to me by Robert Baratheon," Lyanna felt a sudden sinking in her chest. "He has asked for your hand in marriage and, after much thought, I have agreed."

Numbness crept upon the maiden then, unlike any she'd previously felt. Not only had she been promised in marriage, she had been promised to Robert Baratheon. She thought him a fool for pursuing her when she had made it abundantly clear that she held a particularly strong distaste for the man. She could feel the color drain from her face at the mere thought of him, but as fast as it drained did her eyes flare with anger. Consenting to a marriage with Robert was worse than being condemned to a life as a stable maid. At least there she would've been in contact with intelligent creatures. If her father recognized the distain readily apparent in her demeanor, he didn't acknowledge it and continued. Besides, there was no room for argument. If it were to be disputed, it would have to be settled by different means and on a basis other than her abhorrence for Robert. She would have to plan closely if she was to solve this dilemma.

"Lastly, a tournament is to be held at Harrenhal by Lord Whent, in honor of his daughter, in two fortnights. They say it is to span the length of ten days, so I bid you to prepare well."

At this, all three of his children gaped, expressions stunned and enthusiastic at the prospect of attending the tourney, especially one of this scale. Lyanna could almost taste Brandon's excitement at the thought of sparring and jousting. She felt nearly jealous at the thought of not being able to participate in the festivities herself. She, Brandon, and Benjen used to play spare with branches in the Godswood as children. That is until one day Benjen fell in the pool by the weirwood, being distracted by his fear of it, and Nan found out. Eddard, though skilled in brawling himself, never played with her in that manner, but would intently sit and watch.

"We're all going?" Brandon nearly yelled out, taking a step towards Lord Stark who quietly chuckled at his children's enthusiasm.

"Yes, the invitation was extended to all members of House Stark. That is, if all of you wish to attend," the old wolf grinned. "Then go now and have your duties done and belongings packed, for we leave the day after morrow at sunrise."

No sooner did he utter the words than did all four children return with a thanks and turn to rush out, eager to prepare for the upcoming tournament.

"Lyanna, I have one more word with you, child," Lord Stark called out again before she could slip out the door. Slowly, she turned, half wondering what her father could've possibly wanted to wait until they were alone to speak to her about, and half still planning the trip and stay in Harrenhal. It wasn't until she recognized the reprimanding look in his eyes that she gave him her full attention. "In the future, I would prefer it if you didn't spy on incoming visitors from our rooftops."

The sudden flush to her cheeks at the embarrassment of being caught resulted in a nervous laugh from the wolf-maiden who had been so sure she hadn't been spotted. There was little point in arguing with Lord Rickard Stark, whose sharp perception she had inherited. So with an ensuing apology and curtsy, did she excuse herself to retire for the night to prepare and dream of the adventure ahead.


	3. Meetings and Proposals

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

A/N: I had to think about this chapter for a bit, the circumstances of it all, to perhaps make it as believable as possible while twisting the storyline to fit. Hope it does.

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**III - Meetings and Proposals**

Everything was falling into place; yet, even the comforting thought could not keep the brow of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen from furrowing in worry. He shouldn't, can't, give the slightest wind of anything amiss, he mused as he sauntered through the halls of Harrenhal. Again, he tried to relax. Once the torney began he could take his mind off the plaguing matter and focus on what he enjoyed, jousting and combat. If he couldn't act the recluse in his private study, among his many volumes, he could at least delight in the small pleasures of the games.

Tall, moderately built, clean-shaven with a combed silver mane to his shoulders, Rhaegar had come to be the epitome of Targaryen style and grace. The assumption should've been that the dragon prince would revel in the power his birth and position had afforded him, yet, to all who knew him well, this was not the circumstance. Spoiled though he might have been as a boy, he had grown in the knowledge of royal advisors and mentors, as well as his father who had the most influence on him of all the lot.

Rhaegar held his father's actions as a reminder of what the effects of madness could culminate to. Never had he seen the man as anything but the king he tolerated; a fire within him charred and singed and his body tensed in reaction to the thought. In his youth, he found his father terrifying. Now, he saw him as a threat to the stability of the realm.

Yet, even though his apparent madness, Aerys still maintained many loyalties. Rhaegar knew that if Aerys was to ever be removed from the thrown, it would either be the day the man died or the day his followers were outnumbered. He hoped that the later could be achieved in less time than the first and with less bloodshed. The walls of King's Landing already stained with the blood of heads and reeking of death. If there was a soul who should fight for his home, his kingdom, it was he.

As he made his way to the many tents lined where the tourney was to take place, the sound of crashing armor and subsequent laughing caught his attention. Feet carried him to the place, a few tents away from where he previously stood, where he found three boys circled around a smaller one, huddled on the ground. Their enjoyment at the boy's plight spurred them to taunts and insults intermixed with howls of pain from the contact of boots with bones. The acts kindled the prince's surging anger at the sight, urging him toward the assembly. However, before anything could be done, a foreign voice resounded.

"That's my father's man you're kicking!" roared an angered woman, storming toward the gang, sword in hand and bite in her tongue. Upon seeing the weapon, or perhaps its wielder, the boys scattered in fright, leaving what looked to be a barely conscious body in their wake.

Amusement in the scene escaped in a chuckle from the dragon's lips, finding his anger's diffluence swift as he watched the woman kneel at the boy's side, doubtless inspecting his injuries. Rhaegar was suddenly struck as grey eyes, framed in a sharp face with dark tresses, connected with his own dark lilac ones. The anger that swelled in those eyes only intensified as they registered his presence, though he could not comprehend why. And as quickly as the gaze had been established, it was broken as the woman spoke words he could not hear and picked up the injured boy, leading him back to what he presumed to be her family's tent. 'Or lair,' he thought as he recognized the wolf sigil of House Stark upon the entrance. He briefly wondered if she was a Stark herself. Dark hair, a long sharp face, and the grey eyes of the North, if not a member of the Stark household, she certainly had the makings of one. In due time he would find out his question's answer, for what greater purpose did the tourney hold other than to become familiar with the members of other great houses. An alliance with the Starks of Winterfell would indeed be beneficial to his cause; if only he could win their support.

But, for now, he must focus on the preparations at hand. He would need to meet with Jon Connington to discuss his previous meeting with Lord Rickard Stark and his positions with the other great houses. And once again, the thought of it all brought his brow to a crease.

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King Aerys II of House Targaryen had not always been known as the mad king. There was a time when he had been charming, generous, handsome, and full of promise. He had charisma and had been the hand of sweeping change in the court, replacing complacent, conservative courtiers with new, younger, and more progressive ones. There had been much to celebrate in his coming as king. All hopes were gone now, along with the king's sanity. Left in their wake remained fear, paranoia, and madness.

"Varys! Are you sure? Absolutely sure, mind you, I must be sure," the haggard old dragon paced in his quarters. "As my Master of Whisperers you must know, you have your…sourcessss."

The eunuch stood in the shadows of the tent, irked that the old fool had revealed his name. Even in these shadows did he not find security. "There has been talk, your Grace. The walls do have ears, and so do my little birds. Men are quick to talk if it would give a false sense of importance, even to a brothel's whore."

"Then it is settled, it is settled then. I must be ever vigilant, and vigilant must I stay. Those fools, the fools they are to think to defy me! Have they not seen what happens to those who challenge the crown!" And his eyes grew dark then, perhaps in fear, perhaps at the memory of an occurrence not too long ago passed. Varys remembers the Houses of Darklyn and Hollard; all that remained of their names are twisted in song and ink. Aerys had not been the same since and Varys briefly entertained the thought that had Aerys passed in the dungeons of Darklyn's keep and his heir, Rhaegar, crowned king, the capitol would have been spared the blood soaked walls. But there was no purpose in such thoughts.

"Fools as they are, my Lord, we mustn't make haste. Until they reveal their true intents can we not show our's. Let the fools believe they have the upper hand. It is in their false security that we shall rip their foundations from beneath their feet," Varys bowed, unsure of how Aerys would answer, unpredictable as he grew with each moon. He kept his breathing calm, his steps silent, but he could not ignore the tension growing in his chest with the passing seconds in the Mad King's company.

"Very well, spymaster, very well indeed. We will wait, but not so long, for I'd rather give the traitors to the flame than have them in my halls, in my halls. Yes, let the fire take them and their screams, their horrid, beautiful screams! Oh I can almost taste the horror in their eyes and in their burning flesh. The smell, the smell of it in the halls, how wonderful it is, yes indeed." And Varys could see in the king a fire, a lust in his gaze as he stared at nothingness, an unconscious hand reaching his groin in excitement. His long, yellow fingernails scrapping his leggings, the soft sound sending a spiked chill down the bald man's spine. The sound of Aerys' wheezing laughter escaped cracked lips, "And soon it shall be, shall be, before their charred heads are on my gates! How splendid! But what is that? Allies might rebel, no, they cannot! No one stands before the dragon and lives! Let them burn…let their ashes coat the city, their graves and let their children cower."

He spoke not to he, the eunuch reasoned. More often than not he caught the king speaking to voices he could not hear.

"My Lord, is there anything else?" he inquired, steady eyes purposefully never meeting those of madness. Aerys' head snapped towards his, as if only now realizing the eunuch remained in his presence. But just as soon as surprise had graced his face did it leave him, replaced with a grinning look of malice.

"Yes. The eldest Stark boy, I've heard he's been…boasting…the traitorous fool! How dare he challenge the crown, thinking his skill above a dragon's! I'll have his head on a spike before others can join his treachery and their's will line the walls for others to fear! They will fear the dragons!" Aerys slammed his fists on the adjacent table and with a lame swiftness, swept all its contents to the floor, glowering with eyes that held a mad wildness to them. Varys knew the irrationality of madness well and recognized the paranoia that lingered in the king's breath, in his eyes and words. An execution would indeed spark a revolt, one that was unnecessary and possibly fatal to the royal family, especially since the king had once insulted the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, their relationship since tarnished. And a Lannister always pays his debts. That much is always remembered, ever since the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion.

'No, this will never do,' thought Varys, intent on both quelling the king's suspicions and not kindling suspicions against himself if he openly disagreed with the mad king. 'Delicately, yes, that was how this is to be handled.'

"That is most unfortunate, My Lord, being that Lord Rickard Stark is a most invaluable subject. He has been most helpful in the suppression of wildling raids in the North." As Varys anticipated, the mention of the Northern troubles brought another consideration to the mad king's eyes.

'He fears the North, the cold, the unknown,' contemplated Varys, suppressing the smirk that attempted on his lips. 'At least his madness had not taken over his sense of rationalization completely.' He watched as Aerys sat, his visage hard and thinking.

"Then a steward then? Why don't we take one of his sons as a steward? That should deter any thoughts of rebellion, lest his boy die if one breaks out," Aerys contemplated with a smirk, the darkness once again returning to his eyes.

"His boys are currently already promised stewards to Jon Arryn of the Vale," Varys stated, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "But he does have a daughter…"

Varys was no fool to the plights suffered to the Targaryen crown in regards to the production of an heir to the crown prince, Rheagar. His wife, Lady Elia of Dorn had birthed two children, a girl and a boy, one death occurring days after her birth, the other before his first breath had been taken. With each pregnancy she had grown weaker. It had been known that she was rather sickly from childhood, but when it was declared that it would be unlikely that she would grow heavy a third time, a foreign darkness reached her eyes and remained to this day. The kingdom knew her days as princess were numbered.

"Yes, the Dornish princess, that sickly, USELESS wife of that son of mine. I've been meaning to have her done away with," and again, those mad eyes began to glisten with a particular cruelty rarely seen. "Twice has she failed in her duty to produce a LIVING heir, twice too many failures. And what's worse, the sept declared her barren. Barren! She's of no worth if she cannot produce any heirs," and he paused, lost in thought for but a moment. "But the Stark girl…she's young, strong, as women from the north often are. But no matter, as long as she opened her legs long enough to produce a boy at least, her work would be done."

A cackle. A grin. His eyes finally hovered over to meet Vary's once more. The once political prodigy emerged, "Let it be done then. Call the council to annul the marriage between Rhaegar and the Dornish woman on grounds of failing to produce an heir to succeed to the throne and have the septs draw reports of her failing health conditions. Also, have a proposal drawn for the hand of Rickard Stark's daughter, whatever her name is, to be the chosen bride for my son. Rickard cannot refuse and thus, we will hold his daughter, and any subsequent grandchildren, as insurance against any thought of rebellion."

Somewhat relieved at Aerys' aversion to execution, Varys bowed, muttering a short affirmation before taking his leave of the tent, leaving the mad king to linger in his own, dark thoughts.


End file.
